


Always-For-Sure

by iliveinfantasies



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:49:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iliveinfantasies/pseuds/iliveinfantasies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Quinn has to go back into the hospital due to complications with her lungs. Occasionally, at these times, Rachel gets a peek inside the mind of Quinn Fabray.</p>
<p>Quinn POV, post-accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always-For-Sure

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a LONG time ago when I was more active in the Faberry fandom, but I still like it, and figured I would post it here.
> 
> Warnings: none, actually. Mentions of God and religion, I suppose, but that's it. 
> 
> As always, comments and criticisms are more than welcome.

You’re all jagged bones and winter lips, thick tube socks covering your skinny ankles and a dried flower pressed to your heart. Your mind is too sharp and your immune system is too soft, your mouth taking small bites of sonnets, forming cutting word-shards that plop a cutting path down through your lungs and into your stomach. You’re a _postmodernist_ who only speaks in philosophical poetry and lives breathing in the rain. You have three rings on your right hand: two on your pointer finger, because people don’t usually wear rings there, and one on your index finger mostly just because Rachel likes to run the burned pads of her fingertips along the engraved metal. Your eyes are full of freckles, sparks of anger and self-loathing light, but people never seem to notice them and instead hone in on “what a beautiful hazel-green.” You have scars along your ribs, and matching ones inside your mind.

Sometimes, when you’re stuck in the hospital because your lungs make you feel like a baby bird, the IV drips too long and too loud and sounds like slam poetry beating with your heart. You never know what time it is, because hospitals are like casinos and there are no clocks and the light is always on in the hallway, but the moon shining on the overly-patterned hospital curtain lets you know that it’s somewhere in the wee hours when people are either asleep or stuck in the purgatory of the not-really-alive. You fray the corner of the itchy white pillow and run your mental-bones along one of the matching mind-scars and think just a little bit too much about what your family has created. Your sister says she doesn’t believe in luck, she believes in _God_ , but you know that’s just leftover from all of the wish being pressed out of her by your parents, just like the dried flower. Your parents say that they don’t believe in luck, they believe in _Jesus_ , and they tell you time and time again that wishing on blown daisy seeds and discarded eyelashes can’t possibly be anything less than a sin.

You don’t usually like to talk about it, but on quiet request, because the light is all wrong (and through a haze of pneumonia medication), you finally tell Rachel the story of the day your sister bared to you the lost cavern of her soul.

_You were lagging behind, dragging your slightly-scuffed school shoes along the sidewalk and worrying only a tiny bit about how unhappy your parents were going to be that they weren’t shiny anymore when you got home. You were running your hand along the chain links of the fence next to the Candi-mart as you walked, and your finger got stuck for a second, pinching the skin on your right thumb when you got it free. It_ hurt _, and your eyes felt a little damp, until you realized that your cheek tickled even more than your thumb hurt. Your watery eyes broke out into a smile and you flattened your stubby fingers against your cheek, searching for the offending item. You felt triumphant as you pulled the eyelash off your face ‘cause your friend Lindsay from Kindergarten told you about wishes from eyelashes always-for-sure coming true. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, grinning, you looked ahead and suddenly realized that  your sister was a whole half block ahead of you. You cried out to her, running to catch up, blonde ponytail bouncing, the eyelash clamped tightly between your thumb and forefinger._

_“Look!” you yelled, and you proudly held out the eyelash on the tip of a fingerpaint-stained finger. “I got an eyelash and now I can make a wish!”_

_Your sister rolled her eyes and hoisted her backpack higher up on her back, staring at the eyelash._

_“It’s dead,” she said, frowning, one hand on her hip. “How can you wish on something dead?”_

_You felt your face crumble, and you clutched the eyelash even tighter._

_“But Jesus is dead,” you pointed out, eyes wide bright and filtering in all the dull smoke of the real world while you were still young._

_“But Jesus was_ reborn _,” your sister scoffed, scowling a little. Suddenly her face shifted and she muttered something quietly, almost desperately, her voice breaking slightly like a shard of glass. “Can’t that just be enough?” Her throat made a strangled noise, like a dying star, and it was then that you realized that she was trying to grasp onto the faint whisps of hope that she needed to outlive the abuse of your mortal life._

Rachel always beats quiet when you speak in whispers, pursing her lips and slightly cocking her eyebrow as she listens. She never knows what to say when you mention your family, but she recognizes the brittle whisps of bitter for what they are: a new kind of poetry, sharper and more cutting than ever.


End file.
